Diaspora, Can'T Go Home

Diaspora that cant go home Mum and Dad came on boats not grand They left the sun behind To the old country to lend a hand replacing uncertainty and find Prosperity, erase the poverty of native land And we’ll send money back home. They were met with sticks and stones Were broken, not just their bones Wogs and minstrels they were called In Harsh winters and damp ghettos hauled, unfamiliar foods and hapless children Tears flowed inside and years out, From broken ribs phlegm does spout Husband’s and fathers ruled with fists Paraffin fires took lives of kids Benefits to small to feed and clothe Necessitate a hustle to cope And depression became the reward Misery slapped hard onto every face No pubs to ail our weary souls This old country is a hard hard place Welfare killed all dreams and hopes Drugs and anecdotes became our lot Newer immigrants got the jackpot Penniless and broke, Too ashamed to go home No riches to share, not welcomed, disowned.